Guilt
by niblettk
Summary: Burt comes home to find Kurt in a position no parent wants to think about and immediately thinks of a boy he used to know.


It's a nice night.

Burt tugs Carole towards him as he opens the door, pressing hard kisses to her mouth and manoeuvring them towards the stairs. He throws his keys, ignoring the way they bounce on the couch and disappear between the cushions.

They stumble awkwardly up the stairs; the house is dark and But assumes Kurt is asleep or at a friend's house. It makes Burt smile–Kurt hasn't brought a friend home in weeks; they knock into the small table that sits in the hallway, and they fumble into the bedroom.

"Shh," Carole giggles, stroking one hand up his arm, "What if Kurt hears us?"

He doesn't bother turning the lights on, mumbling into Carole's neck and sucking a light bruise into the skin there, "He's asleep."

Carole giggles again–Burt smiles against her neck, relishing how fresh this is, how exciting it is to be with somebody after so long and knowing Carole feels the same way–and he pushes her down onto the bed. She lets out a startled squeak and forces him backwards so she can stand.

"Something's on the bed, Burt."

There's no reason for panic to flare through him, but his chest is suddenly on fire. Burt fumbles, reaching towards his side table blindly; he manages to snag the cord that turns on his light and tugs quickly. Carole gasps beside him, her fingers clenching in terror against his forearm.

"What the–Burt, are those _bullets_?"

It takes a moment for the pieces to fall into place: only one other person knows where both the gun and bullets are; Kurt didn't even call him to check up; the panic he'd felt the moment something had thrown off the delicate feel of the date.

He swears, wanting to sprint to the basement hollering for his son. Instead, because something inside him is screaming for him to do so, he crosses the room immediately to check his bathroom, not daring to leave unless he _knows _Kurt isn't in the room.

But he is. Kurt is sitting with his back against the wall, his arms wrapped loosely around his legs, which are pulled up to his chest, and his head is down, resting against one of his knees. His hair looks damp or just greasy, plastered down against his forehead.

"Kurt?" He hears his own voice, hears the devastation, and instead of launching himself forward to check, to make sure Kurt is alive, he staggers under the pressure of a memory. He thinks about a boy he used to know.

A boy whose name Burt can't even remember, whose father killed himself just days after finding his son's body, whose life was a living hell because of Burt. Because of Burt and a couple friends taunting him for being smaller, for being feminine, for being _gay_.

Kurt turns his head, opening his eyes and blinking at his dad for a moment before his eyes drift and grow distant. Burt hears his sigh echo around him, anchoring him–he doesn't have time to think about a boy who killed himself, not when his own kid is breaking apart in front of him.

He drops to his knees, sinking down and reaching his hand out–it's shaking. What would he have done had Kurt been gone? Had Kurt actually done what he'd so obviously been considering?

"Kiddo, give me the gun." He almost adds _Please_. He doesn't understand why he doesn't–it's obvious that he's scared. He shouldn't have to hide that from Kurt, except he needs to: needs to pretend that Kurt's not holding a gun, that this isn't somehow so close, _so fucking close_, to what that kid's dad must have felt.

He wants Kurt to do it himself, to give up what Burt knows is a last resort, but Kurt just sniffs. When Burt reaches between Kurt's knees, brushing the fabric of his jeans and realizing his hair _is _damp. He's soaked–why are his clothes wet?–and shivering against the chill of wet denim.

Kurt's eyes fall closed and Burt's hand closes around the cool metal of the gun.

He removes the bullets shakily, tossing them behind him and hearing them hit the carpet with a series of small thuds. He puts the gun gently down on the counter, turning back to his son and fighting the urge to shake him–how could he even consider doing this?

Instead, he puts a hand on Kurt's shoulder, scooting forward on his own knees and dropping his head to try and meet Kurt's eyes, should they open again.

"Should I go?" Carole's voice is thin, broken and horrified, and he hears her feet shuffle against the rough carpet.

Burt nods–the realization that somebody has witnessed this tilts him, shakes the delicate balance he has on the cracked tile of his bathroom–and waves behind him to tell her to go. He'll talk to her later, likely collapse in her arms while she tells him it's not his fault, he couldn't have prevented it.

_Except_, he thinks, _he probably could have_. He could have done something back when he'd first realized–not when Kurt was three, like he'd told his son, but when Kurt had turned eight and come home crying and wondering what the word "fag" meant–that Kurt was gay. Could have done something, because he knew, he knew then that the world wasn't going to be fair. But there are places when Kurt would have been accepted, better places than Lima to raise a gay son, and Burt thinks he should have left when he could, when Kurt wouldn't have been devastated to leave his friends.

He wonders if the father of the kid who killed himself would have changed anything, had he known. The answer is, undeniably and irrevocably, _yes_; there's no doubt in Burt's mind.

He waits until Carole's footsteps are at the bottom of the stairs, "Why did you have my gun, Kurt?"

"Sorry." Kurt mumbles against his forearm, and Burt winces; he shouldn't be apologizing, shouldn't have to be sorry for anything. He shouldn't be here, shaking in his dad's bathroom and thinking about suicide.

"That's not enough, Kurt," But moves so his back hits the wall and forces an arm behind Kurt so he can hold him close; his son is too cold, and Burt starts to worry about what could have happened earlier. He tries not to hold him too tight, afraid, somehow, that his son is suddenly breakable. Kurt chokes back a sob and Burt fights to keep his own out of his voice, "You have to talk to me, right now, okay?"

Burt can't help the tears that are falling even though he knows Kurt will be upset at seeing them.

Kurt's head lifts, "I can't do this anymore, d-dad." The stutter alarms Burt, and he reaches up immediately to pull the large, fluffy towel from its rack and drapes it around Kurt's shoulders, rubbing hurriedly to warm him up. Kurt leans back, eyes staying firmly shut, and rests his head against the towel that hangs down behind him. His voice is quiet, defeated; it's the worst sound Burt has ever heard, "I _can't_."

Kurt's resolve seems to disappear and he starts sobbing. Burt pulls him tightly against his chest and stares at the gun on the counter, just above their heads. He tries to think of something to say besides the litany of empty promises that start spilling from his mouth: you'll be okay; we'll be okay; I'll fix this.

He knows that he's been given a chance that his classmate's father wasn't given–he found his son before it was too late, before he'd sealed more than just his own life–and he'll do anything to make sure Kurt never thinks like this again.

He wants to promise Kurt something he can keep, wants to go to that school and find the kids who did this, wants to go back in time and fix what _he _did.

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_Reviews are love._


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